


Twice the Fool

by epkitty



Category: Poirot - Agatha Christie
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-28
Updated: 2011-02-28
Packaged: 2017-10-16 00:29:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/166518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epkitty/pseuds/epkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I am two fools, I know."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twice the Fool

**Author's Note:**

> Story inspired by the Tarot card 00, The Fool. Title inspired by John Donne's poem "The Triple Fool". In the writing of the story, I discovered I don't know nearly enough about post WWI Britain to write this story. Oh well. Better luck next time, right? Also: David Suchet and Hugh Fraser rock my world. …not like that. …okay, maybe a little like that.

Hastings would be the first to admit that he’d never exactly had a set goal in life. He assumed he would go into the army (which he did), he would get married (which he didn’t), and that – all in all – life would turn out for the best.

But in the end, the only thing he ever turned out to be was a bit of a fool with a penchant for wandering.

And it became ever more common that the thing he wandered toward was the little Belgian man with the funny mustache.

Hastings had always thought he understood what life was supposed to be about, and then found himself running in circles for a good portion of it. It didn't matter what he tried; he never excelled, nor failed exactly, but the edge of chaos always seemed to cut so close.

There'd been an American in his unit, Jeffries, who'd repeatedly described them all as 'so very _British_ ,' seeming to imply they'd all been born with inherent pomposity and proper manners. That was never true, and Hastings had tried to reason with him, to no avail, and then the trench had caved in.

He still had the nightmares, and some mornings he woke with the idea of staying in bed, for fear of what could happen to him out there. Other days, he woke with the realization that he'd better do _something_ with himself, or he'd never amount to anything more than he already was: a middle-class gentleman with few friends, minimal income, and no ambition.

Joy, though, was something he knew a little about. And he also knew that more friends, income, or ambition would not increase his joy.

Joy was following Poirot on one of his little adventures, watching those little gray cells at work. Joy was playing monopoly with Poirot, correcting his English, sharing the odd cigarette. Joy was helping show up Inspector Japp now and then, or helping Miss Lemon with the tea.

Joy was watching Poirot smile, watch it creep up to his dark, mischievous eyes.

Hastings knew he was in love, and he knew it with with a quiet sort of dignity that he'd never managed to obtain with anything else in his life.

And that was what made it all the harder to know that there wasn't a blessed thing to be done about it.

All he could do was trail after the funny little Belgian, trying in vain to keep up with him, but finding joy in it nonetheless. He invariably felt like some kind of wanderer or fool.

= = = = =

The End


End file.
